Two weeks since the end of My World
by PenguinsOfDoom
Summary: The war is over, there is peace, happiness. And if happiness is working in Starbucks in exile, then Draco Malfoy is over the moon. DmHp
1. Chapter 1

If you come out of Bond Street Station in central London and walk for about five minutes down the busy high street, you'll come across a crossing

If you come out of Bond Street Station in central London and walk for about five minutes down the busy high street, you'll come across a crossing. Cross it. Walk down a little more and in front of you, in the corner of a curb, there'll be a Starbucks.

Go in.

Welcome.

You are now standing in the place where one Draco Malfoy, aged 18, worked…

…and had been working for just over a week. It was a Tuesday when he started, a horrible uncomfortable, _wet_ Tuesday, and today was a Wednesday. The week had been uneventful and he relatively quiet, the complete opposite to what Draco thought he would have been like if he saw himself working in a muggle coffee shop, serving muggles and (worst of all) taking _orders_ from muggles.

The war had changed everyone.

Not that he liked it anymore than anyone expected him to but he had learned a long time (ok, _last year_) that keeping his trap shut and opinions to himself was sometimes the most prudent choice to make. Especially if doing anything out of line, even just a little thing like whining (which was Draco's forte), could, more likely than not, land him in Azkaban for the rest of his miserable existence.

…_or have cold, scabby lips __descended upon his own…_

Draco shivered.

They said that he was lucky, he _knew_ he was _more_ than lucky, not to have been killed by either side during the last battle, during the war. He was _more_ than lucky to have both his parents survive, relatively unscathed, to have his small family still complete (though not for very long now…) when so very, very few could say the same. He hadn't lost a body part, lost his looks, lost his mind (though the word 'yet' clung ominously behind that). He was _more_ than lucky.

Yet why did he feel like the world screwed him over?

Because he was fucking Draco Malfoy, and he was fucking serving fucking muggles who thought they were fucking superior when they fucking weren't and his parents were in fucking Azkaban and his whole fucking life was fucking ruined forever.

Fuck, he spilt coffee on himself. It burned like hell.

It wasn't fair.

The muggle girl, with whom he was working, Michelle or Michel or whatever, turned around and asked if he was ok, though she was laughing at him really, and customer he was serving, some fat, pretentious man with a ponytail, looked at him with sneering contempt.

_Well, fuck you, _Draco thought, _we'll see whose laughing when I imperio you to stick your ugly head up the fat bastard's arsehole._

He gritted his teeth and apologised. It wasn't fair at all.

The thought of 'it wasn't fair' was one he had been mulling over since he was old enough to understand what the words meant. Probably before then, knowing him. It wasn't fair that he had to go to bed before Dad and Mum, it wasn't fair he wasn't allowed to sleep next to Mum when Dad was (though Draco knew now, with a childish shiver, why _that _was), it wasn't fair when other children had a toy he didn't have. When he got older, it became more school orientated. It wasn't fair that the teachers didn't like him, that he had to share a dorm and _a bathroom_, that mudbloods got better grades than he did. And it really, really wasn't fair that Harry Potter didn't want to be friends with him. He became friends with _Weasley,_ with Granger, with _Longbottom_,why not him?After the Incident on the Train, most 'it wasn't fair's revolved around Potter.

Stupid Potter.

Stupid, brave, heroic, powerful, _scary_ Potter, who saved his life _twice_ during the last battle, who died and came back and defeated the Dark Lord in a one on one duel. Who, in retrospect, saved him from having the rest of his life being a constant repeat of the past hideous year. Who Draco hadn't seen since the last battle few months ago, covered in blood and dirt, looking as if he was finally free.

Draco hasn't forgiven him nor stopped hating him but…

The war had changed everything.

The fat man finally got his mocha (with whipped cream and marshmallows and all, the obese prick. He should stop lying to himself and just get the hot chocolate deluxe that he so clearly wanted) and Draco turned to deal with the next customer. No time to relax. No time to think about Potter. He really shouldn't even _be_ thinking about Potter, but what else was there to think about? How he's exiled into the muggle world, how his every action is being monitored, how he's never going to see his parents, his friends (a word he could ironically begin to use after this terrible year) ever again? Remembering all those _things_ that _happened??_

No, he didn't think so.

Potter was a safe territory for his mind to wander into. He always had been because he was simple, unlike everything else which either brought pain or confusion to well up inside Draco, to stew and rot. Potter just brought on a familiar anger which Draco almost found comforting and reassuring when everything else in his world had gone topsy turvy.

Damn he was thinking about Potter again. Concentrate. Ok, this customer's done, now the next. And the next. Today was busy. Hell, she wants that really complicated thing. Don't mess up. The manager had told him to brighten up once in a while, that his expression was scaring customers. Draco wished it would, they were too many of them, but he tried to crack a smile anyway. Couldn't hurt. Damn, his lips didn't even _move_. To hell with that idea then, he didn't know why he was bothering to try. He hadn't smiled since…he'd be damned if he knew.

Draco turned to the next customer, who was waiting there patiently, without really looking. Draco found that you stopped seeing people once you were doing this for more than two hours non-stop, and start merely seeing blobs with orders and money. Unless they had complaints of course, _then_ Draco could see them. He could see them being cursed with the Jelly-Legs jinx.

"Your order, sir?"

There was a pause and then suddenly a low chuckle.

"Draco Malfoy working in Starbucks, my god, it really is the funniest thing ever."

At the sound of his name, Draco froze. That voice. Shit, it couldn't be. Slowly, he raised his eyes from his trembling hands to be met, by some terribly cruel twist of fate, with the object of his ponderings.

"Dear me," smirked Potter, his black hair annoyingly tousled as it had always been, his hated green eyes glinting in amusement, "You really have gone down in the world, Malfoy."

Draco gaped, abashed, "What?! What the hell are you doing here?!"

"Shhh, no need to raise your voice. People are looking."

Potter put a finger to his lips, grinning. Clenching his fists angrily, Draco lent forward, checking that he wasn't being watched by Michelle or the manager, to whisper furiously.

"I repeat, what the hell are you doing here? More importantly, how did you know where I was?!"

Potter rolled his eyes. "Well, I _am _the saviour of the Wizarding World. I think that entitles me certain privileges, like looking at Ministry files, wait, I _am _part of the new Ministry, quite a big part, you know?"

Obviously that was the case. Draco almost slapped himself for forgetting who Potter was now. He was allowed to do particularly anything, now that he was the unquestionable boy hero. He was close to the new Minister, Shacklebolt too, and part of the Recovery, Restoration and Retribution Programme (a.k.a. The Three R's) lead by Granger. Of course he could find Draco, if he wanted to.

_If he wanted to…_

"That doesn't explain _why_ you're here, Potter. Though it's absolutely _delightful_ that you came to visit me, haven't you got anything better to do than to laugh at my current humiliating position? Like an autograph session? Or giving a heart-warming speech to house elves?"

"You never change, do you?" Potter commented coolly, his light-hearted disposition darkening ever-so slightly, "Always needing to attack."

"_I'm_ always needing to attack?!" Draco spat, lips twisting back into that familiar curl, to that familiar identity "You're the fucking one to talk! Am _I _the one who blows things up when I'm angry?! Am _I _the one who - !"

Draco stopped himself, suppressed that part of himself. Nothing good would come out of him losing his temper at the Wizarding World's favourite knight in shining armour, especially not here, not now. He was given a sort of second chance at life and no matter how distasteful it may be, he wasn't going to let Potter ruin it for him. Like how he ruined everything else in Draco's life.

Taking a deep breath, Draco demanded quietly, "Tell me the reason you're here, Potter, or get out. You know how _awfully_ I missed these little _conversations_ with you but I have a job to and there's people waiting to be served. Wizards now think you're some sort of god to worship but muggles, you may find, don't."

Potter's eyes searched Draco's eyes for a while, which Draco found deeply unnerving, and then he raised his eyebrow. He gesture behind him.

"What people?"

Indeed, behind Potter there was in fact nobody there. Draco, stunned, scanned the rest of the café. No one, only Michelle wiping some spillage on one of the tables.

"Kinda dead tonight, huh?" Potter said innocently, fiddling with a piece of hair between his fingers, "I think I might have a cappuccino."

Draco narrowed his eyes. Potter must have some sort of Muggle repellent charm on him, a weak kind, so as not to repel Michelle or the any of the other staff. But if he had a charm on, this was no coincidental meeting. Potter was here on business.

"Potter, what I said still goes. Speak or get out, I'm in no mood for reminiscing our happy little Hogwarts days. Especially not with _you."_

Potter met his glowering eyes defiantly. Sighing, he raises his hands up in mock defeat, all the while his emerald eyes boring uncomfortably deep into his grey ones.

"Ok, ok. You win. But you really won't like it."

"Potter, I'm warning you.."

"Well, I'm here to see your manager-.."

"_What?!"_

"…-about your behaviour, being your new supervisor."

"_YOU??"_

Harry shrugged. "See I said you wouldn't like it."

Draco was too shocked to move or speak. Why, why, why, why, _why _ was _Potter_ of _all_ people was Draco's supervisor?? It just didn't make _any_ sense whatsoever. Monitoring Draco was a dead-end job, even Draco knew that. It was essentially babysitting a death eater. Potter could do anything he wanted, absolutely anything, no questions asked. So why for Merlin's sake, would he take on this time consuming, useless back-end of a job, a job where he would be forced into spending time with someone he positively hates? To get at Draco? No, not even Potter would do something as pig-headed as that.

"You need to see the manager?" asked Michelle curiously from behind. She must have been eavesdropping on them all this time, Draco realised with horror. "He's in the office at the back. Shall I take you to him?"

"Oh," Potter faltered a little, Draco saw with glee. He must have not realised she was there. "Oh, um, yeah please, if you could."

Same old Potter. Draco had thought he had changed, had grown harder, more confident but he was the same awkward, ineloquent little boy who couldn't even ask a girl on a date. To muggles, anyway. To pretty muggle _girls_, anyway. Draco chortled in malicious amusement inside…

…_At the back of his mind, however, Draco knew Potter was different from how he was a year ago. He was more assured of his place in the world, more relaxed in his gait and seemed infinitely more formidable. He would never admit it, but Draco's heart raced in a kind of exhilarating fear with just his mere presence…_

…before sneaking quickly into the back, intent on listening in. No doubt Potter couldn't wait to have him sent back to Azkaban and would probably pick on the smallest detail. Draco couldn't let that happen. He couldn't go back there, not ever, he just couldn't. The Dementors…they, they make him think of those _things_ that happened …those terrifying, nauseating dark nights…and he couldn't _bear_ to remember.

The hand that suddenly grabbed his shoulder made him almost jump out his skin.

"Ah!"

Michelle quickly pulled her hand away. "Ah! Shit, sorry! Didn't mean to scare you there! Just wondering what that was all about."

"It was nothing."

"Er, o_k, _right. Why does he need to see David? _Who_ is he by the way?"

Damn she was nosy.

"He's no one. Just someone I knew from school." Draco mumbled, averting his eyes. He'd gotten into the habit of doing that, not looking people's eyes. One word; Legitimancy. Draco shuddered at the numerous memories coursing through him, linked to that gruesome word. Even after two months, Draco still couldn't break it, even towards muggles, disgustingly enough. "He's coincidently got business with David, that's all. It's got nothing to do with me."

Michelle peered at him suspiciously. "If you say so. But you're curious about it, aren't you? Don't even deny it." She said in mischievous glee as Draco opened his mouth. "I can help you listen in without any chance of getting caught. You know the female locker room? It's next to the office and the walls are paper thin. You can hear pretty much a fly dying from there."

"What's the catch?" Draco demanded; face stony with distrust, "We've hardly said two words to each other this whole week. What is it that you want?"

She raised her hands up, very much like how Potter did only minutes before. Was she mocking him?

"You're pretty edgy huh? I just wanted to help out, seeing as you looked so upset. Seriously, I don't want anything, though now you mention, maybe a drink after the shift will do nicely."

"A drink."

"Yeah, you know, an _alcoholic beverage_?" she gave a frightful impersonation of Draco's public school boy accent and mimed drinking, "You look kinda short on friends."

_That's because I don't fucking need __**muggle **__friends_, Draco thought angrily. _Is she hitting on me_?

Dad's Life rules No.1: Nothing _ever _comes without a price.

That aside, he really did need to hear what David, the manager, was saying to Potter, so he quickly told her the affirmative on the drinks front and dashed into the female changing room. The room itself was tiny and it smelt distinctly like girls: perfume, cosmetics and shampoo. More importantly, Michelle was right. Draco almost could've kissed the muggle when he clearly heard Potter's voice through the grey coloured walls.

"…-eally? So he hasn't been any trouble _at all?_"

"Been as good as gold. I'm pretty surprised about it myself," came David's laid-back loll of a voice, "I mean, judging by who he _is_, I thought he'd put up more fight."

"So, he's happily serving coffee to muggles? I can't believe that. I know Malfoy. He wouldn't be happily serving _wizards_. He wouldn't be happily _serving, _full stop. Bar Voldemort, of course."

_Don't think you know __**shit**__ about me, scar-head, _fumed Draco. He wished he could break Potter's stupid nose like in the good old days. _Hey, wait. How the hell does __**David**__ know about me? About wizards? _

David's melodious laugh tinkled. "I wouldn't say he was happy. In fact he looks like the personification of a frown beating up the guy who told him turn upside down. Seriously fucked up. Looking at him makes me pretty glad I wasn't born a wizard like Colin and Dennis…"

There was a sudden shift in David's voice and for a moment a dark silence hung over in the air. Colin? Colin Creevey, maybe? The Harry Potter fan-boy? He was a muggle-born, wasn't he? Then that probably meant that David was related in some way to him, maybe a cousin since he wasn't that old, mid twenties, and probably on his mother's side because of his surname and…

Creevey was dead.

Shit.

"Colin was a great guy," Potter said softly, "He helped so much during the war an-,"

"And we're going off topic." David responded brightly, fakely. "Drake isn't reacting well socially. He doesn't speak to any of the other staff and when he answers me, it's 'yes' or 'no' at the best of times. I don't know what the hell he does when he's not working, I can hazard a guess that it's not much apart from locking himself up in his flat. He looks a bit pale too, maybe he's ill?"

Draco could almost _sense_ Potter shaking his head. "That's him normally. Actually he looks a lot better since the last time I saw him. And 'Drake'?"

"Oh, yeah. That's what we know him as. Drake Malford. I usually call him 'Drakey boy' or 'Drakers' to try to brighten him up."

"Does it work?"

"Nope."

Potter laughed and Draco could feel his face burn in humiliation. Sounds of chairs scraping warned him that the two were leaving, so he made a swift escape back into the serving area.

Trying as hard as hell to look busy and not as if he was just in a girl's locker room, Draco moved some cups around under Potter's amused scrutiny. Glaring, Draco turned to face him, with a look that obviously conveyed a 'what are you looking at' sort of meaning. Potter, oblivious as he ever chooses to be, kept right on looking.

Bastard.

Well, if he was going to be like that, then Draco would do the same so he went right on moving the cups silently. A few minutes passed before Potter said lightly.

"I need to question you now, Malfoy. How are you getting along since I last saw you?" Though how he could say _that_ lightly was beyond Draco's imagining.

"Hmm, let me _see," _started Draco in an overly cheerful, sarcastic manner, his volatile temper reaching its limit, overriding his rationality, "I've just had the most _wonderful_ time in Azkaban for exactly four weeks and five days, with those pesky little Dementors flying around. _Then_ I just happen to wonder into the muggle world, where I'm going to stay in exile for the entertainment of the higher ups I presume, working in a coffee shop, being ordered around by the beings I hate most. So really, I'm just _peachy_."

Potter rolled his eyes, as if the whole thing was a big joke. "And your little pure-blooded hands are getting blisters and you can't dress your self without house-elves, blah, blah, blah. I get it. Look, I've got more important things to do than listen to you feel sorry for yourself, so if you, for just one second, be grateful enough to co-operate-.."

"Grateful for what?! I don't even know why I'm out here, for god's sake!"

"Frank didn't explain?" Potter asked, genuinely looking puzzled. Frank had been his previous supervisor, a silent, bulky man who clearly hated Draco and resigned after two days. "They didn't explain during your hearing?"

Draco shook his head, angrily remembering his rough treatment and casual dismissal during his hearing two weeks back.

"They told me that because of something about there not being enough evidence of me actually committing serious crimes compared to the others, only my presence at the scenes, that my punishment would be lighter. They said that I was sentenced to a monitored exile form the Wizarding World, though none of them looked too happy about it."

"Shit. Those useless buggers." Potter sighed somewhat wearily, "They accidentally on purpose seemed to have forgotten to mention that you're part of an experiment that Hermione thought up."

"I'm a _what?"_

"It's part of the Three R's called Muggle Awareness Experiment. She wants to see whether if Death eaters were less ignorant of muggles, they could have empathised with them, see them above the level of animals. It's the long term solution of something like this never happening again. Thus, being the most stubborn, annoying git we know, you're the first subject."

Draco narrowed his eyes into menacing slits. "Fuck no. I'm not being some sort of guinea pig for the likes of _Granger!"_

"So you'll rather go back to Azkaban?" Potter snorted, raising his eyebrows.

"No, I'd rather be fucking free!"

"I doubt any amount of sucking up and kissing arse would get you that," Potter shook his head, "God, you really don't change. I guess that's why it's so funny seeing you work in _Starbucks._ I have _got_ to bring Ron here one day!"

Draco's lip curled nastily, while his grey eyes sparked with malevolence. "Oh, how _are_ the Weasleys these days?" he sneered, "I heard they lost a member. Oh, but it's ok. That's the one they had a spare for, right?"

Potter's flying fist cut off the snigger Draco was about to start and it slammed against his jaw. Dazed by shock and pain, Draco staggered backwards, swearing loudly, cradling his face. He glanced through his fingers and the sight which stood before was something so refreshingly terrifying that his heart leapt right up to his throat and he felt that he was dragged back to the months before. Dragged back to the Dark Lord.

Potter was angry. No, he was more than angry; he was practically burning with fury.

"Never," he murmured, and somehow that murmur was more frightening to Draco than any screams or shouts could have, "ever insult the Weasleys again, if you know what's good for you. That includes staying alive."

Draco's arms were stiff against his body. He was trembling slightly, unable now to control his fear, thinking 'it's the end, it's the end' over and over in his mind. Part of him wondered though, in all his panic, whether staying alive actually was what was good for him. Was it worth living in this prisoner's life?

Their eyes locked on. Draco's trembles evolved into shudders but he could not look away from those terrifying orbs, which looked so much like the green flashes of his nightmares, death, pain, _avada kedavra. _

NO, NO, NO!!

How stupid was he? What part of him was so suicidal that he would go and be like this to fucking _Harry Potter_, probably the most powerful wizard in the world, the most loved, the most influential! Was Draco not a Slytherin?! Where was his sense of self-preservation? Just apologise, beg if you have to! Co-operate! Say you've changed, say you never really wanted hurt people, _that you're_ _sorry!!_

He couldn't.

Not to Potter.

Draco still had some pride, even now.

His father would have done it. His father could grovel to practically anything, if it meant saving his neck. But Draco was too much like his mother, filled to the brim with that notorious Black family trait of pride. Those who say he was just like his father was horrendously wrong, in Draco's opinion. Draco had none of his father's charm, his father's sly, slinking words which would twist and pierce into people's hearts, creating strings for him to puppeteer. Draco was manipulative, yes but he had none of his father's foresight or calculative mind for it to amount to anything.

On the other hand, Draco was as much, if not more, a coward as his father.

And he was scared shitless of Potter right now. With his Killing curse eyes and still water face.

_But pride, being the biggest sin, won through_.

Draco opened his mouth.

_But only just._

Enough only to not apologise.

"Ok, I get it," Draco hissed through clenched teeth, in an effort to hide the tremor in his voice, "No badmouthing the Weasleys, else I'm dead."

He made a stab at getting up. At least then he'll be taller than Potter. Potter's eyes never left his own and they watched him slowly pull himself onto his feet, with a hint of annoyance. And perhaps sadness, though Draco may well have been imagining this, sadness at the loss what was always there between them, an equal sort of tension. Certainly this was the emotion that was filling Draco, anyway.

"Are you scared of me, Malfoy?"

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Of course he was. Who wouldn't be?

"Who would be scared of a scrawny midget like you?" sneered Draco, his self-righteous dignity faithfully kicking up strongly at last, beating away his spinelessness.

Potter looked shocked for less than a second before bemusement trickled into his expression. He shook his head, smirking, smiling a little in what could have been relief.

"And here I thought this was going to be a boring job," he muttered, semi-privately, "Don't know which is worse though; Malfoy being a jittery arse-kisser, or just normal."

There was a crash and the penetrating sting of shattering crockery, as Draco threw a mug from the counter onto the floor. His face was contorted into an ugly snarl and he spat onto Potter's stupid, stupid, _stupid_ grubby shoes. After once last furious glare, he stormed out, out of the café, out into the wilderness.

A perfect way to end a tantrum.

Draco was nothing like his father. His father would have taken in the new information calmly, foresee the advantages of having Potter as his supervisor, and act analytically.

His father would have never had a hissy fit.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

_He was trembling slightly, his pale skin going into multiple spasms all over his body. But then it was cold, as it always was, in the presence of the Dark Lord. If only Draco could believe it was indeed the cold that was making him shiver._

_He was kneeling between his parents in their drawing room. The Dark Lord sat in the grand mahogany chair which was formerly Draco's father's, though nobody as per yet mentioned this to Him. Draco's knee, the one on the floor, was starting to feel itchy against the plush carpet through his trousers. He tried to concentrate on that uncomfortable feeling, because any feeling is better than the fear that would drench his mind whenever he saw His face. It was worse because He could see it, no matter how well Draco hid it on the outside. The Dark Lord had full access to his mind._

"_Lucius, Narcissa," came the soft slither from above him, "Young Draco. I must thank you all most profoundly for letting us use your wonderful manor. Though none of us would wish to bring work into our home, I am glad that you are willing to sacrifice your comfort for the good of our cause."_

"_It is no trouble at all, my Lord," insisted his father, strained, "it is an honour to have you grace our home and to be such use to you."_

"_Yes, your family in general has been very useful to me, for many years, despite a few mishaps now and again," A tense pause. "Recently your son here has helped us be ridden of that old thorn, Dumbledore, though it was not all according to plan, or so I hear."_

_Draco felt his mouth go dry. He knew he should probably say some sort of acknowledgement about his failure, or a thanks to His semi-compliment, but he seemed to have lost all control over his voice. _

_His mother saved him. "Thank you, my Lord. We are glad that Draco has become some use to you, even in his very young age. Even I, his mother, am astounded by how much he achieved." _

"_That is true, but then I had very high expectations of your son from the very beginning."_

"_Thank you, my Lord," said Draco, managing finally to find to his voice, though it was small and shrill, like a child's._

"_**Your welcome**__," the Dark Lord replied, his voice suddenly much, much closer, "__**But that is why I am slightly disappointed in you. I'm sure you know why that is, Draco."**_

_The Dark Lord's lips were by his ear, his stagnant breath ghosting over Draco's face. Icy fingertips touched his cheek, the nails were so long they seemed non human and they lightly pressed into his skin. Draco suddenly realised, with horror, that He wasn't actually speaking just then, the words just appeared within his head. The Dark Lord was communicating with him privately, making sure his parents would not overhear. Draco felt nauseous. The thumb tenderly stroking his jaw did nothing to reassure him, rather it did the opposite. It was all Draco could do to hide his revulsion, at least from the surface of his mind._

_**So, Draco, **__resonated His voice, sounding strangely amused, __**I gave you a job, a job you didn't finish. Why didn't you kill him? I know you were in a position to, I've seen the scene replayed in the minds of the witnesses. What made you unable?**_

_The hands that cupped his face felt like a vice and Draco started to have trouble breathing, he was only able to suck in shallow superficial bursts of air through his nose. He felt like he was being smothered by dread._

_**Look up Draco, let me see your eyes. Show why you were so weak.**_

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It takes Draco usually 30 minutes to get back to the measly one room flat which now substituted as his home. However, on the day Draco stormed out of work because of Potter, it took well over an hour. In his anger, he found himself going blindly in the wrong direction from his memorised route. Thus, he became completely lost and had to walk around aimlessly for about half an hour, because there was no fucking way he was ever going to ask for directions. Once in the station he normally took, he realised he had left his 'oyster card' (why muggles named this strange piece of shiny material with some sort of seafood was utterly beyond Draco) back at work. Obviously, he could have gone back to get it, but he really, _really_ didn't feel like it. It would have totally ruined his exit. So, it took him another twenty minutes to work out how to use the ticket machine-y thing, which he luckily had some money for in his pocket. An interfering muggle attempted to 'help' him, assuming Draco wasn't from these parts. Which he wasn't, of course, but how _dare_ he just assume that! Did Draco look bloody foreign?

Everything about the muggle world annoyed Draco. From their 'cars' and their terrible public transport to their 'elecktonacles' and their stupid contraptions that Draco could not get his head around. The oblivious muggle population who now milled around him had no idea what went on this past year, had no idea who he was. To be honest, they had no idea how the world worked, they just make stupid little theories about everything and lived by them as if they were the absolute truth.

Draco hated them so much he could burst.

But not every single one of them.

As much he would be loathed to admit it, there was one he quite liked.

Her name was Mrs Bowman. She lived in the flat opposite his and though she introduced herself as 'Mrs' Bowman, as far as Draco could see, she lived alone. A small, dark woman in her late fifties, she smelt of forgotten pressed flowers in old books and her eyes were always half-closed and melancholy.

He met her on the third day of his exile.

The first time he walked up those grimy stairs and down the equally grimy hall to the even more grimy room was at the dead of night two weeks ago. He was with two faceless, nameless Aurors, (not Frank then, he came the day after) though if they thought he was going to try anything, they were stupider than they looked. But perhaps not, thinking about it. Draco may have been too spineless to do anything, to fight, but other Death Eaters most definitely would not be, and the Aurors were actually a good precaution. It's not as if _they_ knew how much of a pathetic coward he was. Only the Dark Lord knew how much.

The flat with all its four dismal rooms was exactly the same two weeks ago as it was now. The kitchen was tiny; Draco doubted any more than two people could fit into it without creating some kind of fatal havoc with knives and food. Not that there ever would be anyone other than himself in this lonely existence. The tiles in the bathroom were coated with disgusting mildew, as well as the bath itself. The living room had a deflated looking sofa and a cheap coffee table which, together with the horrible patterned wallpaper and bogey coloured carpet, created a terribly tacky effect. In the corner, like a nightmarish monster, squatted a 'television', which, to this day he had not gone near. But it was better than the bedroom. The bedroom was the worst. A single bed with a lumpy mattress, drawers, a closet. Nothing else. The walls were an off white, paint peeling at the edges like dried skin. The carpet, could you even call it a carpet? It felt more like sandpaper, same colour too. There was a blind instead of curtains, covering a minuscule window, whose bolt was rusty. It felt like a prison.

He tried to keep telling himself that it was a damn sight better than Azkaban but the memories of the high ceilings, the long stairways, the velvet curtains, the gold and silver plated arches of his manor, his home, refused to tear themselves from his heart. For the first three days he holed himself in his room, only coming out to drink water from the tap, which tasted like shit, and to go to the toilet. There was food in the cupboards but they were in plastic packages which he didn't know how to open, or tins he could have only opened with a wand. Luckily there were some fresh fruit, though they didn't last for long, and he didn't dare go outside to buy more. Some money was brought by Frank in the morning, along with a thick handbook full of information and instructions on various things about the muggle world. He left them on the coffee table, without saying a word, and then he left in a similar sort of manner. Draco could not bring himself to read it or even to touch it.

For those three days he felt the most alone he ever had in his entire life, cut off from not only his family, but also from the world he had grown up in, the only world he knew. He didn't want to get used to the muggle world, to get used to the muggle way of life. He was a wizard, they couldn't expect him to live like this. Despair clogged his body, exhausted him, deadened his senses, numbed his thoughts. He lay in the darkness beneath his covers, and let the silence of his loneliness fill him like a drug.

On the evening of the third day there came a knock on the door. It was a timid, quiet knock, but it cracked opened his silence. _Who the hell is it_, he remembered thinking, _it can't be the supervisor, he would come through the fireplace. _

He wanted to ignore it but if it turned out it was the Frank, or someone similar, there would be no doubt he would get in trouble. In Azkaban, there was no silence, only screams which was much, much worse. So he cautiously went to the door and opened it. There stood Mrs Bowman, looking quizzical and slightly apologetic, holding in her hands a dish of steaming Shepherd's pie that made Draco's stomach do back flips.

"Hello," she had said in a warm yet nervous way, "I see you're my new neighbour. I'm Mrs Bowman from just opposite. Sorry to bother you, you must be very busy unpacking and that, but I over made dinner back at home, so I wondered whether you might like some."

"Oh, um…" Draco did not know what say or what to think. Could this be a trick? Could she be someone with a grudge against him, a Death Eater, out to avenge a loved one? Caution was telling him to refuse but he was too hungry to give the opportunity of eating a hot meal (oh, something he hadn't had for _weeks_) a miss. Perhaps he could try to use Legitimancey, but he would need time for that, he wasn't that great at it. "Would you like to come inside?"

She looked surprised. "If it's alright. I wouldn't want to get in your way. A young man such as yourself has lots of things to do, I imagine. Well isn't this so tidy! My place is so cluttered with knick knacks and that kind of things; it feels so strange to be in somewhere so clear."

They stood awkwardly in the middle of the living, Draco feeling increasingly more regretful about inviting her in and Mrs Bowman looking very uncomfortable with her hot dish, which was slowly burning her hands. Draco all of a sudden remembered his manners and offered her a seat, where she gratefully sat and put down the pie onto the table. Here was his chance. He focus all his dismal strength into his first magical act for two months. He inwardly stumbled at how easy it was. Mrs Bowman, being a normal muggle (as it turned out), showed no resistance. He went much too deep.

Memories not his own flashed and whirled into his mind. _A child, her daughter? And a man with his fist raised high above his head__**. Pain**__. Running far, far away, never stopping for the fear that he would catch them. A grotty room, her little girl with a fever, and its just a cold, it had to be just a cold! But it wasn't, and it was already too late. The 4 foot coffin, the ironically bright sun, they burned into her eyes. It was all her fault, __**all her fault**__!! Sitting in her flat, surrounded by the junk she had collected because they reminded her of her little angel, desperately trying not to forget her face. Years go by but nothing changes and she's so lonely, so incredibly lonely. If she could only find some reason to live…_

"Are you alright, dear?"

Draco snapped back into reality to realise tears had begun to spill relentlessly from his eyes. Horrified, he tried to wipe them away but they would not stop, in fact they became worse. No, he could not cry in front of a stranger! A muggle! Had he really gone so pathetic that he would cry for some muggle's tragedy?! He didn't want to cry, he didn't want to feel like this! He wished he never invited her in! Never looked into her life. He had his own pain and misery to worry about; he didn't need someone else's. _He didn't want to know_!

A warm hand gently patted his shuddering shoulder. "You poor child," Mrs Bowman soothed, "You poor, poor child. It's alright, get it all out, please, don't mind me. I'll get you a nice hot chocolate and some tissues, ok? Just sit down and I'll be right back."

And she was. The hot chocolate tasted like heaven, even though he knew it was nothing compared to the ones he had at home, but still it was the most wonderful thing he had ever tasted. After he had wiped his face, he felt extremely embarrassed at what just happened. It was lucky Mrs Bowman was in the kitchen with the pie, as he was sure his face had gone a bright tomato red. He had to calm himself, had take control of his feelings. But before he could even prepare himself for that, she appeared in front of him again.

"Feeling better?" she asked kindly.

Draco managed to croak, "Yes,"

"Excuse me," she said, sitting down beside him, but not unmannerly close, he noticed, "I haven't asked for your name yet. I'm so sorry."

"Draco."

She nodded. "What a lovely name. Sounds very grand and so unusual. Well, I put the pie in the oven, so whenever you want to eat it, just put the dial on 120 for about ten minutes to warm it up."

"Thank you."

"It's fine," she smiled softly, "You seem a little pale, so I'm sure some hot food would do you some good." She paused. "If you ever feel a bit peckish, don't hesitate to ask me. I'm only just opposite. I always make too much, anyway."

"And," she carried on, shyly, "If you ever need an ear to listen, well, my ears are always free."

That was the first time Draco met Mrs Bowman. It was after that, after Draco had some food in his stomach, when the letter concerning his new job appeared on the table, that Draco finally felt some resolve. He did not know whether it was glancing upon someone else's misfortune that caused this sudden determination, but from that moment on he decided that he would beat this exile, that he would live. He would rise like a phoenix from the ashes of muggledom and get back his home, and get back his life. He would never, _ever_ go back to Azkaban.

…………………………………………..

When he finally got back, he turned the dial of his oven to 120 to warm up the last dish Mrs Bowman had made him. She had begun the habit of making him something every other day, knowing instinctively that Draco did not know how to cook. They had even talked a few times, Draco increasingly warming up to her each time, almost becoming his real self. It just felt so good to have someone who cared for him and to speak to. He knew she only looked after him to alleviate herself from loneliness but he was in the same boat. She missed her child as much as he missed his mother.

But don't get the wrong idea; it wasn't as if Draco had changed. He still feels the same hatred against muggles as he ever did, but Mrs Bowman was different and he had accepted long ago that he was a hypocrite. And he needed someone. It was like being comforted by Moaning Myrtle all over again. At least Mrs Bowman was alive.

He walked into the living room to find another letter on the coffee table. Shit, Potter. Draco felt bile rise to his mouth. Dear god, what the _hell_ did he do! Did he really say those things to his supervisor!? For real, not just in his head?! Oh no, oh no, shit, shit, shit. He had done it now, he had completely ruined _any_ chance of him becoming free. What a complete utter fucking idiot.

With a trembling hand he opened the letter on which his fate was written.

'_Malfoy,_

_You are a complete utter fucking idiot,-'_

Duh, Potter, Draco already knew that.

'-_and, though it was kinda funny (apart from spitting in my shoes, which is just gross), you are so lucky David didn't fire you. Are you trying to get back to Azkaban? Look, I know you hate me and everything but you don't have kill yourself other it. There's loads of people who would love to see that and probably double who would rather do it for you. _

_Anyway, just behave alright? I'm going to need to come round every three days, and if you are going to act like that every time, then its one way road to Azkaban. Let me get on with my job and I'll leave you to do whatever it is you do with your life._

_Potter_

_P.S. I mean what I said about Weasleys_

…that was quite unexpected. Draco frowned as uncertainty drifted into his weary mind. He wasn't fired? He wasn't even going to be _reported?_ What the hell was Potter trying to achieve?! After shaking his head, Draco collapsed onto the lumpy sofa. Too much thinking for just one day, he needs his rest. He had always been a brooding child but this was just ridiculous.

_I guess that's what happens when you've got no one to speak to, _Draco thought miserably, _You speak to yourself like some crazy lunatic. _

Lunatic made him think of Loony Lovegood, who in turn made him think of the war, which made him think of Potter. And so, as Draco heaved out a teary, trembling sigh and drifted into a troubled sleep, it was Potter's face, the night he took Draco's wand, that was the last thing he remembered.


	3. Chapter 3

The letter lay seemingly undisturbed a week later on top of the imitation mahogany coffee table (the 'mahogany', Draco felt, being a malicious dig at his lost fortunes). This scene was, of course, staged; Draco had pored over the thing so many times that the edges felt like feathers. He read it like a monk studying the bible, or, more accurately, like a detective investigating a ransom note from kidnappers, scrutinising every word, every letter, for some clue or double meaning that he was so sure lay hidden in those badly written eleven lines(_those five paragraphs, 138 words_, _564 letters…)_

But he was never going to let Potter know that.

That was why that letter lay in the exactly the same position as when it arrived (though Draco moved it _slightly_, because he didn't want Potter to think he actually _hadn't_ read it), and Draco himself acted forcibly relaxed while in the flat, waiting for Potter's absolutely nerve-wrecking entrance.

He'd been waiting for a week. The letter said three days. However bad the education may have been at Hogwarts, Draco knew very well that three days didn't equal a fucking week. And Hogwarts education was completely and utterly balls and…_with Death Eaters raiding the classrooms, turning wands against him even though he was meant to be on their side, the castle hating him, paintings sneering at him, teachers hating him, teachers against him, students hating him, students attacking him, Potter standing in front of him, Potter hating him, Potter __saving__ hi-_

"SHUT UP" Draco screamed, shooting up to his feet from his lounging position on the sofa as unwanted, nauseating dark memories surged through his mind. He was plastered in perspiration, his skin and hair sticky with it. Covering his face with his trembling arms, he breathed raggedly in and out while his nails dug into his scalp. It took about five minutes for him to calm down and for his thumping heart to slow, with every beat aching with a heavy, hollow insanity that made him want to tear it right out of his chest.

Just because he was awake didn't mean the nightmares couldn't find him.

It was the fifth time that week, not including his nightly torments. Draco sat shakily back down, letting his arms drop to his sides. He would not cry, he wouldn't, he couldn't. Please don't let him cry, he prayed to any god that would listen. But nothing could stop his tears from falling yet again.

He hated himself.

* * *

David pretended as if nothing had happened when Draco returned to work two days after The Cup Smashing Incident. Though thoroughly nervous and suspicious to the bone, Draco decided that he'll take what luck he could get and also pretended nothing had indeed happened. This turned out to be a lot easier than he thought and life at Starbucks returned to its monotonous peace with almost annoying smoothness. The only thing that stuck uncomfortably in Draco's mind, not including the expectation that Potter would come marching through the door at any second, was the fact he found out David knew exactly who he was.

Oh, and let's not forget that he was the dead Creevey's cousin.

Draco now found himself looking at David in a completely different way and started judging his every action as something that could potentially be very dangerous. Although David may have looked completely harmless (if not an idiot), Draco knew that, with the right incentive, most people were capable of mostly anything. Who knows what he might do? Draco may have only been seconds away from having his throat slit with the shard of the very mug he smashed a week ago! This was the reason Draco had taken to acting even more of an unsociable prat than he was before.

"You alright there, Drakers?" David asked in a jovial manner, paying no attention to whether Draco responded at all, "You should really put a smile on now and then, especially when the ladies come. You've got a good-looking face, you know, so try and use it now and again!"

Draco's face twitched.

"Hmm, on second thoughts, maybe we need to work on that."

David was a tall, skinny man in his late twenties, whose friendly, caring charm helped maintain genuine friendships with his employees. He had an easiness about him that made people open up as soon as they met him even though, Draco noticed, David did not actually reciprocate this openness. It _seemed_ like he did, however David hardly revealed anything about himself and that a lot of what he did say was of little importance, like what restaurant he went with his girlfriend and so on. Draco disliked this even more than he disliked David's arty-t-shirt-and scruffy-jeans 'I'm cool' sense of fashion.

He had Creevey's nose and hair.

"So, a pretty little bird's told me you've got a date." David said conspiratorially as Draco cleaned the coffee machine, it being close to the end of his shift and the wave of customers had slowed to not even a trickle.

Draco stared at him in shock. "_What_?"

"Ah, Drakey, don't even try to hide it from me. I have ears everywhere," he grinned widely, completely misunderstanding, "To be honest I was shocked! Didn't think you had it in you! But then Michelle is a very beautiful girl."

Draco groaned inwardly. He had been avoiding Michelle like the plague since that day, only _just_ managing to fend her off with excuses. It was lucky she only worked on Wednesdays and the weekends but trust David to get the wrong end of the bloody stick!

What if he tells Potter?

Draco felt his face burn with the thought of Potter thinking he asked a fricking _muggle_ on a _date_. He could just imagine Potter laughing about it with his stupid friends, the Weasel cracking dirty jokes and Mudblood Granger claiming righteously through her giggles that her 'experiment' is working. Oh god, it made him feel sick.

"Look, you've got the completely _wrong_ idea!" he scowled, bordering on aggressive. He saw Michelle walking up to them. "Did you tell people we're going on a _date?"_

Michelle raised an eyebrow in bemusement. "Uh, _no. _ People just assume things but god, is the thought of going on a date with me that revolting?"

_Yes. _"No, of course not."

"Then tonight is good, right?"

"Uh," Draco floundered, "well, um, you see I might be a little, you know, busy and, you're not really my type and er-..."

"-and you're a prick. I know you've been avoiding me alright, and for some reason think that I'm a stalker or something. Shit, seriously, a girl just wants to be friends and then a guy automatically thinks 'here's a slut hitting on me'. I've already got a boyfriend, thank you very much, and frankly," she paused, her eyes burning like the fires from hell, "you're not _nearly_ as hot as you think you are."

No fury like a woman scorned.

David watched her livid form storm into the locker room, shook his head awkwardly and then pulled himself a mug from the drying rack. As he made himself a cup of tea, he said quietly to Draco:

"Jesus, sorry, my mistake."

He paused.

"But you know, it doesn't pay to make enemies out of people who are trying to be your friends."

Forcing himself not to roll his eyes, Draco gave a non-committal shrug. David gave him a meaningful look.

"Especially in your position."

Draco felt his heart clench and his jaws tighten as the anger and frustration he had been suppressing inside him threatened to emerge again. How dare this, this _muggle_ try to fucking _reproach_ him on this? What was with that grave, sympathetic, _fake_ look?

"Well," said Draco lowly, eyes flashing, "seeing as you seem to be so well informed of my '_position,' _I'm sure you can imagine my feelings on that matter."

David did not respond, instead put two sugars in his tea.

Draco carried on, his voice getting increasingly faster and higher pitched, "And to be perfectly honest with you, I don't really know _why _you _want _me to be friends with your people. Aren't you scared I might go crazy and kill you all or something? Are you dead in the brain? Don't you know how fucking dangerous I am? _You know what I am, don't you?"_

He was out of breath and shaking, immediately regretting his outburst. David sighed and then got out a pen from his pocket and started writing something on a napkin.

"Look, all that doesn't matter. We've all done things in the past that we really want to forget, and your past has got nothing to do with me or Michelle or anyone else here, you know? Here," David handed him the napkin, "That's my mobile number. I'm going to take Michelle out on a comfort drink tonight and if you feel like joining us anytime, just call, ok? It'll be good for you."

Draco just stared and stared and stared. Hadn't he heard what he had just said…?

Laughing, David gave him a hearty pat on the back and informed him that his shift was over and he was free to go home and 'do whatever dangerous thing it is you do'.

As he walked unsteadily to the station, a surge of emotion finally caught up to Draco and he had to choke back a sob. David was wrong, it did matter, it mattered a lot. To him, to David, to everyone.

* * *

When he got back, he could tell instantly that something was wrong. The atmosphere in the dingy little flat was…different, more alive, like someone was there. There were sounds coming from the living room, he realised with a plummeting stomach and a fluttering heart, and he could smell something…

"Oh, you're back," Potter said casually, flicking through the channels of the dreaded television whilst drinking a mug of tea when Draco rushed into the living room. "Do you not know how to open stuff or something?"

"You're late, you know," he replied cautiously, "You were meant to come four days ago."

"So you did read my letter."

Draco nodded, eyes kept firmly on Potter. He was going to make sure he behaved well this time, and that he kept his pride well under control. There was no way he would be manipulated like last time and fall into Potter's trap.

Potter thankfully turned the thing off but the silence it created was unnerving. Though he turned his head to face Draco, he made no move to get up.

"Ah, so you're going to be good this time?" he smirked amusedly, "No tantrums?"

Gritting his teeth, Draco shook his head and took a deep breath through his nose in vain hope that it would calm him. It did no such thing. Draco cursed whatever god there was that made his insuppressible sense of dignity and Potter ever co-exist in the same room as each other. Things were definitely not looking good on the escaping muggledom front.

_If it was anyone other than Potter, _thought Draco bitterly, _absolutely __**anyone**__, even the bloody Weasel! My fucking luck!_

"So," said Potter, snapping Draco back to reality, "Shall we start?"

Draco nodded and moved to sit on the vacant armchair. With a flick of his wand, Potter casually magicked out some parchment and an enchanted quill that quivered in the air, waiting for instructions. Draco's eyes were drawn the wand, glinting in longing and envy. It had been so long since he had seen one and his hands were itching to hold it. Unfortunately this was noticed by Potter, who then purposely made a show of twiddling with it in his hands and Draco tried fervently not to let him have the satisfaction of knowing how much that got to him.

With a nasty grin pasted onto his face, Potter started the standard interview. How, in general, have you found the muggle world? What are the main difficulties you find in living here? Has there been any problems? Have you _caused_ any problems? How are you managing in the muggle workplace? What have you learnt from working there?

And it went on and on. Draco felt like he could scream, especially with Potter half-heartedly stifling laughter on every question. However, he managed to answer them all very professionally, so much so that even Potter could not pick a fault. For, in those excruciating hours waiting for Potter, Draco had studied the manual given thoroughly so that there was nothing Potter could trip him up about the muggle world.

"Last question, finally!" exclaimed Potter after just over half an hour, "In what ways have you initiated socialising with the muggle people around you?"

"I communicate with them at work. I speak with the customers and also engage in conversation with my manager and colleagues."

"I see, but," said Potter, tapping the tip of his wand against his chin, a cruel smile beginning to blossom onto his face, "that's not socialising. Or initiating."

"I beg to differ," Draco said defiantly, for there was no way in _hell_ Potter was going bring him down on bloody _socialising. _

"Do you? But you know, you can beg all you like but I'm your supervisor and I say it's not," Potter stated coolly, "And, unless you have anything else to add, which," he took in Draco's fuming form, "I guess you don't, it's going to be a black mark for this one."

_Fuck you, _Draco screamed in his head, _fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOU!_

"So, I'll guess I'll be going n-"

"I do."

Potter frowned confusedly. "What?"

"I do have something to add."

Eyebrows raised so high they disappeared into his messy fringe, Potter sat back down. Taking a deep breath, Draco took out the crumpled napkin from his trouser pocket, wishing David a happy long life blessed with many children.

"This is a 'mo' _bile_ number from someone at work."

"Ok…" Potter said slowly, seemingly unable to comprehend a world where _Draco Malfoy_ even mentioned the word 'mobile number', let alone wave one around like it was the best thing ever created.

"And," smirked Draco triumphantly, "I am going to go for a drink tonight with him and a simply _wonderful _female colleague of ours. I was the one that suggested it, of course, knowing that you'll be _ever _so proud of me when I mentioned it."

Taking in Potter's darkened face and his irritated manner as he scribbled reluctantly on Draco's progress sheet, Draco felt absolutely no regrets. Any gain over Potter was worth sacrificing one evening to the dregs of hell (also known as the company of drunk muggles), shit, he would even say a week's worth of evening! Oh, how he savoured it. The familiar sweet, malicious feeling of humiliating the bastard, swelling up in the space behind his heart and slowly spreading its warmth across his chest, his stomach, his limbs, his face. He felt giddy with the sense of power, like some sort of high, because if he could hurt the hero of the Wizarding world, he could do _anything. _

There was nothing quite like this feeling.

Somewhere, from the edges of his memories, Blaise's words from more than half a year ago rang through his mind. _Don't go there, Draco, seriously. Don't get lost in them, because you know how you get when you do. You don't think straight, you get all wound up and stupid, like some little kid. You do things you're bound to regret and end up feeling worse than ever…_

_You're right as always_, _you prat, _thought Draco hollowly, as the warmth seeped out of him. He wished he'd said that to Blaise at the time, instead of trying to punch him the face in anger and denial. There were a lot of things he wished he'd done where Blaise was concerned, but these thoughts were far too late, Draco realised with clenching gut, as they were most likely to never meet again.

He had lost his only fucking friend in the world. Absolutely typical.

The snap from Potter's folder brought him back to reality.

"Well, I guess I better be off," he said causally, as if he just didn't get the one of the biggest shocks of his life.

"Yes, you better," Draco said dully.

"Have fun at your first muggle party."

Draco managed to force a low 'thank you' passed his grinding teeth at Potter's 'now he thought about it he's actually amused' face, being reminded, _yet again_, at how hilarious this whole thing was to him. And how bloody helpless Draco himself was.

Potter called from his front door, "And good luck with using the _phone."_

Looking from the napkin in his hand to the monstrous contraption sitting in the corner of the living room, Draco let out a groan. He was going to have to _touch_ the thing. Moving hesitatingly closer and closer until it was the only thing in his vision, he put one trembling finger on the button mark '0' just as he remembered from the manuel. He pushed.

'_beep'_

Draco screamed.


	4. Chapter 4

When Harry returned home to 12 Grimmauld Place, the first thing he noticed was that there was light in house, which was something of an unusual occurrence in the former Black residence and ex-headquarters of the Order in recent days. Kreacher had issues with anything looking remotely cheerful after all, and Harry only really used the kitchen and his bedroom. But now there was bright, clean light chasing away those grumpy shadows in every corner of the house.

This could only mean one thing.

"Hermione! You're back!"

Finding her in the living room already surrounded by mountains of paper and books, Harry rushed to give his best friend a bear hug. She laughed and gave him a tight embrace back, her brown hair tumbling out of her bun and tickling his nose.

"Oh, Harry! I missed you so much!"

"No way! I missed you more!"

"Well, looking at the state of this house" she chuckled, glancing pointedly round the room, "I might have to agree with you. Seriously, Harry, did you tidy up at all? It was an absolute tip!"

Harry gave her a shocked look. "But tidying…is for women."

Wincing at the smack he deservedly received, Harry asked about her two weeks holiday with her parents. It had taken him and Ron an unbelievable mountain of effort to get her to take some time off to spend with the family she had only just reunited with. Hermione insisted that there was far too much to do, in particular with the Muggle Awareness project only just starting up, and so it was only when Harry suggested she could do some sort of muggle research there that she agreed. Looking from the happy glow of her skin and the sparkle in her eyes, Harry knew that effort was well worth it.

"Oh, it was fantastic! I was completely unaware of all the gains in technology while I was away. The internet, nanotechnology, genetics, the sophistication of computers now, it's all so amazing! I had to catch up while I was there!"

"Oh no, don't tell me you sent all your time reading!"

Hermione tutted. "Of course not! I used the Quick Eye charm to scan through everything at night. The days were spent with my parents."

"And how was that?"

"It was," Hermione said suddenly very softly and a little sadly, "really nice. They were terribly angry with me, of course, but they were just so glad to see me. I sometimes forget how much I miss them and love them. Before, I kept thinking there's this gap between us because of the magic I have, but really, that sort of thinking is very stupid. They're my flesh and blood and nothing would change that, you know?"

"Yeah, I think so" replied Harry but really he could only imagine how Hermione felt. The only flesh and blood he has ever known were the Durselys and he was pretty sure those sort of feeling would never apply to them. Memories of his parents in their ghostly form from fourth year and, more freshly, a few months ago flitted through his mind. As did Sirius, Remus, and Dumbledore…

Harry the Orphan.

But then he had always been the orphan. He had lived through that and will continue to live though it. There was another orphan he was much more worried about and that was Teddy. Feeling so much affinity with his godson, he felt the burning need to be there for him at any cost, to be the godfather Sirius would have been during his childhood. Though Teddy had a grandmother who loved him, Harry knew that he would undoubtedly suffer, just as Neville had. Teddy was somewhat like a second chance for a childhood full of love, and Harry loved him for that. Another Marauder's son, he was like a little brother.

"Oh yeah, while you were away, Teddy took his first steps!" Harry said excitedly.

Hermione gasped enviously. "Oh please say you got the pictures! You have, haven't you?"

"Of course, who do you take me for?" said Harry smugly, handing her the newly developed photos from his pocket, "Where's Ron by the way? I saw his shoes in the hallway so I thought he was here."

Freezing at the name, a blush raged through her skin like wildfire. "Er, um, well you see he's-"

"Harry!" cried a wet and half naked Ron rollicking loudly the stairs. "You're home!"

"-in the shower…"

"Hey!" greeted Harry happily, giving him a high five, "What's up with you? A shower at this time of the day?"

Ron grinned in a slightly embarrassed way. "Yeah well, got a little…sweaty if you know what I mean."

"RON!"

"What? Why should we hide from Harry?"

"What do you mean…oh," Harry realised painfully slowly, "I see."

An awkward silence enveloped the three; a stiff Harry desperate to clear his mind of unwanted metal images, Hermione buried in her own embarrassment, Ron stifling his laughter.

"Yes, well. Ron put some clothes on please and can we just get on with updating me about what's been happening!" Hermione finally huffed, striding purposefully into the kitchen to make some more tea.

Harry and Ron shared a look.

"Good?" enquired Harry with a little chuckle.

Ron gave him a dazed, post-coital happy smile.

"_Bloody brilliant."_

* * *

_"_The restoration of Hogwarts is well and truly finished. McGonagall just put up the last of the wards last week and they say that the memorial stone, you know the one that conjures up the image and life story of everyone whose died in the war when you say their name, should be ready by the end of the school year," said Harry, flicking through one of the many scrolls in their living room.

"That's good. Where is it going to be?" asked Hermione.

"Erm, I think its planned to be in one of the gardens. Someone suggested near Dumbledore's tomb which I think is quite nice."

Hermione and Ron murmured their agreement. Grabbing one of the ginger nuts biscuits she had brought back from her holiday, Hermione asked what was going on with the Retribution programme.

"Ah, yeah we're still at a standstill there," answered Ron, frowning. "We have most if not all of the surviving Death Eaters in our custody, it's just the same old debate about what to _do_ with them."

"There's two opposing thoughts in the Ministry," said Harry solemnly, "Mr Weasley and his side feels that it would have to be life sentences with great reforms on the way Azkaban is run but there's a pretty strong side for execution."

"And the Minister?"

"Kingsley's yet to choose a side. I think ideally he wants to not have to resort to execution but can see argument for it."

"It's a pretty good argument, though I hate to say it," said Ron, "The number of Death Eaters and Snatchers is high enough to risk a mass break out without the amount of wizards on guard we have now, and we won't be able to keep that number up for the time scale we're talking about. The public are worried too and its not surprising. Loads of the Death Eaters who committed the worst crimes were the ones to break out last time and people are scared they'll do it again."

"But that can't justify a mass execution!" cried Hermione, "I don't want to sound cliche but that truly would put us down the same level as them."

Harry sighed. "I _know._ I hate the idea as well but frankly I hate more the idea of history repeating. And though I couldn't agree more about that new reform about abolishing Dementors, keeping the prison locked down is going to need a whole lot more manpower and resources that we don't have."

"The Wizarding United Nations isn't going to like it though," said Hermione, turning to Ron, "Didn't your dad say the Minister has gotten a letter from them?"

"Yeah, it must be about the execution thing. Most of them are dead set against it after all, like France and other Europeans, though I reckon blood lineage is more on their list of priorities than human rights," said Ron darkly, "Not sure where the Americans stand on this."

Eyes suddenly blazing, Harry spat angrily. "What does it matter what they think? Where the hell were they when Voldemort was manipulating the country? When people were being rounded up and murdered? Doesn't the WUN consider the genocide of muggle-borns as a crime? Why the _fuck_ are they interfering now? _Fuck _them."

"Unfortunately mate, we can't," Ron said grimly, "We need their aid, simple as. Percy is in part of the accounting and stuff and he says the we're close to broke."

"What about the money from the Death Eaters?"

"Not nearly as much as we hoped. Seems like You-know-, sorry bad habit, Voldemort sucked most of them dry already."

Harry let out a frustrated breath as he leant back on his armchair. "Trust him to ruin our plans even from the grave."

"Leaving the WUN matter for now, what's the public opinion on this?" asked Hermione putting her hand onto Harry's shoulder to calm him.

"Fifty fifty, like the ministry, like my house," said Ron tiredly, "Dad is against it of course, so's Bill and Fleur but Mum, Ginny and Charlie are for it. I'm still undecided on a principles sense and Percy's got that resource dilemma to deal with."

"And George?" enquired Hermione carefully. Ron shook his head and Harry cast his eyes down. George was not…George. He was a walking ghost.

Harry's heart throbbed with the mention of Ginny. He had hardly seen her these past months, what with them both being busy and him understanding when she apologised and said she needed some space to mourn for Fred. It was the same, he thought, for him and Sirius' death. No matter how much those close tried to support and comfort, sometimes space and some time alone was all he could handle. So he gets it, he really does. However, the lonely nights in the empty house, alone with just his own hand were beginning to grate on him. He missed her face, her smile, her defiant, fiery voice, her warm body. He missed being a 'them' rather than a 'him', especially now Ron and Hermione were together. He missed her.

Missed her so much he was getting paranoid that she was avoiding him. Paranoid in the sixth year Malfoy-stalking way. Which was _really _not good.

"How is Ginny, by the way?" he asked in a forced casual way. He was well aware the two before him knew about his paranoia, especially from the worried look they had just shared. Ron cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Yeah, she's okay I guess. Still really down and moody all the time but she's seems a lot better after spending time with Luna and them. Not sure how much good that is for her mental health though."

"Oh, well that's good" said Harry, slightly disappointed that she would choose to spend time with Luna and not him. But it made some sense. Luna was a good person to talk to, remembering Dumbledore's funeral, and they were really close after last year as the heads of the resistance in Hogwarts, along with Neville. Made some sense but still left a bitter taste in his mouth. "Has she asked about me?"

"Yeah, yeah of course!"

"Of course, she has, Harry! She misses you lots!"

"What, you've met her recently as well, Hermione?" said Harry surprised and a little accusingly, "When? I thought she was too busy to meet up? She's never there when I go and visit!"

"Well, I only saw her today when I went to the Burrow to talk about ideas for the new Muggle Awareness Programme with Mr Weasley," Hermione said defensively, "You two went to the meeting as well didn't you?"

"The Muggle Awareness Programme?" asked Ron confusedly but happy to change the subject, "not the experiment ? Oh, I remember! The meeting with muggle-borns and half-bloods about increasing awareness of muggles in the public!"

"Yes, hence the name," replied Hermione dryly.

"Last Sunday, right?" said Harry, quick to return from his Ginny-turmoiled state, "Dean is one of the leaders in it so it was really well organised, needlessly to say. There were some really good ideas, especially from Daphne Greengrass."

"Ohh, _that _Greengrass," shivered Ron in juvenile excitement as he gestured towards his chest, "she was something else, if you know what I mean."

"Greengrass?" said Hermione with a frown more directed at Ron, "I remember her from my Arithmancy class. Wasn't she a Slytherin?"

"Yeah but as it turned out she was a closet muggle-born. Apparently she's kept the muggle thing secret from the rest of the school for years apart from her best friend Tracey Davies. It pretty amazing!" explained Harry, "She came out of hiding just after you left and came straight to see us at the Ministry about helping out. You should've seen our faces when she showed us her mobile phone!"

"Especially Seamus!" laughed Ron,"Dean said he had a weird hate-filled crush on her in sixth year because she was in their Charms class, so apparently he used to annoy her as hell. He spent the whole of that meeting going 'She's still a slytherin, she's still a bitch' next to me."

"Nice to know you were listening during the meeting," said an unimpressed Hermione raising her eyebrows, "So what were these good ideas of hers if you weren't too busy looking at her chest?"

Harry cut off a baulking Ron before any arguments could take hold. "She suggested an integration of muggle technology into the magical world, so developing magical mobile phones and computers etc, so muggle culture doesn't seem as alien, as well as making more gains in magical technology to rival places like Japan and the US. It was her thinking that if we could make these gains and have new stuff, we'll be able to export them and get more money into the country."

"That's…brilliant," murmured Hermione uncertainly, as if she could not quite believe that a _Slytherin_ of all people had suggested it, "Exactly my train of thought…"

"She also said she really liked your Muggle Awareness Experiment and thinks maybe it could extend to normal wizards and witches as well. Obviously not an exile but more like trips organised by those in the programme to experience sides of the muggle world they would normally never see."

"She specifically said clubbing," mumbled Ron, mouth full of ginger nut biscuit.

"We discussed this idea more and Dean suggested a gap year in the muggle world, maybe made compulsory. Dennis and a few of his friends said maybe Muggle Studies should be taught compulsory from first year or even pre-Hogwarts. And I think someone suggested more muggle fashion."

"Yeah, and all the muggle-borns cheered," said Ron seriously, "especially the girls."

"And Dean and Seamus," added Harry equally seriously, "They wanted more mini-skirts."

"Which I agree."

"As do I."

"Boys," said Hermione, rolling her eyes at the guffawing two, "Please be serious. I don't think fashion is on the top of our priorities at the moment. And can you even imagine some of those old wizarding families wearing _jeans, _let alone the sort of mini-skirts you're imagining."

"Oh my god," heaved Harry, "I just remembered what Malfoy looked like as a muggle. In Starbucks."

"Oh god, Harry, don't do this to me!" cried the laughing Ron, clutching his sides.

"An apron."

The two burst into fresh peals of laughter. Even Hermione let out a chuckle.

"Oh, oh, oh, the Ferret in an apron!"

"He was _actually _making coffee. He called me _sir."_

_"_Don't Harry, I'm literally dying here!"

"He couldn't even open the cans in his house!"

Hermione's face, though first amused, grew darker by the second. She held herself in at first but when Harry started imitating Malfoy's rant in the coffee shop she burst.

"_Harry!"_

He turned to her, bemused. "What?"

"You're acting completely unprofessional!"

"So? Its Malfoy, for god's sake! We always bitch about him!"

Hermione sighed. "I know we _used _to but we're adults now and this isn't a game anymore. It's his life you're mocking."

"Steady on, Hermione," said Ron cautiously, not wanting to get on either on of their toes, "you've got a point but don't forget Malfoy was never slow on mocking us about _our_ lives. And this is just harmless banter outside the workplace."

"Look, I wouldn't care about this if it wasn't for how Harry's been acting while _in_ his workplace."

Harry scowled. "What do you mean?'

"I've read your work log," said Hermione looking him in the eye, "because I was curious about how Malfoy was progressing. All your interactions are noted you know, and it seems like you were being deliberately as horrible to him as you possibly could, and provoking him. It's not like you."

"I can't help it if he's a prick."

"I know he is! But that's not the point, you should be and are normally very professional and empathetic to these situations. But with Malfoy, you're reverting back to your school day pettiness, even when he's being compliant. I don't know if it stress or whatever that's making you be like this but don't think for a second you can get away with it!" cried Hermione getting shriller and more tearful as Harry'd face got harder. Ron put his arm round her, giving Harry an apologetic look mixed with reproach.

"I sorry, I'm ruining the experiment," he said lowly. He knew at the back of his mind that, yes, he was being a bit of a git to Malfoy, but at the same time could not help but feel that he wasn't out of place in doing so. It was _nearly_ as bad as Hermione made it out to be.

A small space somewhere in his heart started to well up with guilt.

"It's not even that and you know it, Harry. You were the one that said he should be given a second chance, you were the one, for reasons you've kept from us, who said you wanted to be his supervisor! It's obvious that he's trying really hard with this experiment and you should be the last person in the world who is trying to sabotage this for him!"

"I'm not trying to _sabotage," _Harry sighed, relenting, unwilling to have an argument over Malfoy of all people or for the gradually accumulating feeling of shame to continue,_ "_Really. It's just that he winds me so much, acting like nothing's changed, that I just fall back into habit with him. Or maybe you're right, I'm taking out my stress onto him. I'm sorry, I promise I'll keep a check on myself from now on."

Hermione got up to hug him as she always does when they get into arguments. She holds tight as if she's afraid to lose him to his rage, and he only has his past to blame for that.

"I know sometimes it feels like he deserves it," she whispered in his ear, "But just remember that though we all have been through a lot, so has Malfoy. And I think you know that much more than I do."

She was right as always. Harry did know, know too much, and wished to the bottom of his being that he didn't.

"So," said Ron, awkwardly breaking the tension, "anyone for a game of Exploding Snap?"

* * *

It was in the middle of the night long after everyone had retired to bed but Harry could not sleep. The evening had been brilliantly fun in a way that brought back memories of their early years at Hogwarts, innocent and untainted with fear, and the buzz of it had not yet left him. Filled with all kinds of alcohol, from the nostalgic Butterbeer, to Firewhisky to Borrichius' Brew (a fantastically strong liqueur from Denmark, one of the many gifts they had received), the chaotic game of Exploding Snap threatened to destroy half their paperwork while Ron's formidable ability in Wizarding Chess was only taken down through the joint efforts of the other two through tickling him relentlessly. As the night when on, the mood mellowed and the three reminisced about the happy times they had shared over the years and by the time they were ready for sleep, Harry went to bed with a massive smile on his face.

But now he was lonely.

Or maybe he was restless. He couldn't quite tell which but he knew he was itching for something (or someone) to do. For something to happen. It was understandable really, seeing as he was not yet used to being able to sleep soundly with the safe knowledge he would be alive when he wakes. Or to leave his wand over an arm's reach away. The nights spent on the move had primed his ears for the most faintest of noises and there were plenty of those in that creaking house. The wind whistling through the drafts, taps dripping, senile Kreacher mumbling away to himself in his sleep. No to mention the energetic thudding and moaning from Ron and Hermione's shared room when they forget to put on a silencing charm.

Harry had first heard them when he was half-asleep and through his dream-hazed mind Hermione's groans were not of pleasure but agony. Being tortured by Bellatrix. Harry had to save her, the thought blazed through his mind as he rushed out of bed, sweating and trembling as his nightmares warped reality. He managed to bring himself back before he embarrassed everybody but the experience had left Harry uncertain about his own mental health. More than once, he thought about seeing a mind Healer but would repeatedly dismiss the idea. People still needed him to be strong.

The people can't have a broken hero.

The lack of sleep wasn't helping. The simple solution would be to block out the sounds with a charm, but he could not bring himself to be vulnerable to dangers both real and imagined. There may still be Death Eaters or their sympathisers out there who would want to harm them and Harry knew there were some in the Ministry who feared that he would turn uncontrollable. No, he could not leave risks like that.

Still, he needed to sleep… _or these plaguing fears and nightmares would consume him._

It would help to have Ginny here with him. To warm him. To distract him. To use up the pent up energy with more fun ways. They could fall asleep together, tangled in each other's limbs, breathing hot heavy breaths together, melting into each other skins. He could wake up first and watch her sleeping face, he could bring her up her favourite breakfast and let the smell wake her. It could be dream-like, it could be possible.

It should be possible.

Maybe if he explained to her how much he needed her, how much he was flailing in this ocean of responsibility without her then she would realise that _she_ needed him too. Maybe it would turn out that she's been waiting for him to say and maybe then he could finally kiss her again, touch her, fuc-

_"!"_

A shrill alarm went off in his head.

_What the hell?_ he thought, _has Malfoy activated the emergency signal?_

In one smooth movement he deactivated the spell wordlessly and jumped out of bed. Changing as quickly as he could, he tried to think of what possibly could have befallen Malfoy in that short space of time.

_He doesn't even leave his bloody flat, _Harry thought quizzically, _ it's got the Fidelius Charm on it anyway and I'm it's Secret Keeper!"_

He apparated to a dark, empty living room.

"Shit."

Malfoy was out for a bloody drink.

* * *

It took Harry about ten minutes wandering aimlessly in drunken youth-filled central London for him to remember that there was a Tracking Charm on Malfoy. Fortunately it lead to a pub not far from where he was, leaving him feeling slightly amazed at his own intuition. The cold October night had sobered him up before the need for a Refreshing Charm but left him in a terrible mood. He irritably pushed past the smokers lingering at the doorway, checking in an instant all the exits available just in case, and scanned the interior for Malfoy's conspicuous white blond hair.

The pub was fizzing with life and drunken laughter, warm and full of people. Alive people. Harry concluded that whatever or whoever was threatening Malfoy must be doing so discretely, seeing as the Tracking charm stated that Malfoy was amidst the crowd. This meant that they were most probably a common wizard or witch who wanted revenge, but would never want to hurt bystanders. They were most probably working by themselves and were scared about confronting Malfoy alone, unsure of his ability, and wanted to get him off-guard. Harry thought it was likely they would try to force Malfoy outside to some quiet place so as not to cause unnecessary trouble.

Harry sincerely hoped it wasn't Frank.

Suddenly a loud distinctively familiar shriek reached his ears. Rushing past the many drinkers, Harry whipped out his wand discretely and prepared for a rescue. He reached the table where, to his horror, he saw Malfoy's body slumped over it.

"Malfoy!" he cried, grabbing onto his shoulder, "Are you alright? Did you see who did it?"

"POTTER!" Malfoy bellowed, shooting back up, "I _knew _you'd come, you righteous bastard!"

Harry stared at him in confusion. And then around the table. David sat to Malfoy's right, looking sheepishly apologetic and to his left sat a pretty woman who Harry remembered as the waitress from before. She looked at him in a dazed awe.

"Drake…you were _right."_

_"_Of.._course _I'm _right_," said Malfoy, stressing every word with great effort, "I'm _magical!"_

They both burst into laughter.

Malfoy looked nothing like Harry had ever seen him before. His hair and clothes were dishevelled as if someone had split drinks all over them, his pale face was stained with a hearty pink blush across his cheeks, and he was laughing without any malice. What's more, for the first time since Harry had spurned his friendship long ago, Malfoy look genuinely happy to see him. Elated, even.

Oh god, Malfoy was totally _wasted._

"Your round, like...like we agreed!" he chirped, slurring every other word, "a bet is a _be-et_. I said he'll come when called and there he is!"

"No fair!" she whined good-naturedly, as drunk as he, "it took such a, such a, such a _long _time! _He _should buy the round!"

David said apologetically, "I'm so sorry about this, Harry, actually I'm the one that said the emergency word. Drake, as you can see for yourself, wouldn't be able to say your full name let alone that tongue-twister. I thought a drink would loosen him up but I had no idea he would freaking _unravel,"_.

Harry was lost for words. Malfoy actually getting on with muggles? Even while drunk, it was unbelievable. _Must show how much the experiment is working I guess, _he thought, trying to look on the bright side of this ridiculous situation as he felt an intense irritation beginning to bubble under his skin. He had panicked for _this? _Ran out of bed, got lost in chilly, grimy streets and forced become sober because Malfoy was drunk…_Merlin. _Harry let out a deep breath and forced out a smile.

"It's no problem. I just thought that there was some, I don't know, _danger_ or something."

"Oh no!" cried David, misunderstanding, "he's great, fine, wouldn't even think of causing a scene!"

"No, that's not what I meant, oh forget it," sighed Harry wearily, pushing a hand through his hair, "I don't want to sound rude but if there was no danger, why did you call me?"

"Well, he'll probably be a danger to himself if I let him go home alone."

Harry had to agree as he watched Malfoy announce loudly that he needed to piss and wobbled his way to the toilets. The women's toilets.

"So you want me to take him home?"

"Yeah if you could. I mean I would taken him if I had any idea of where he lived but he won't tell me, and my girlfriend would go nuts if I bought him back to mine," explained David while the girl nodded her agreement. Michelle, was it? Harry had always been pretty good at names since he was young but had become even better since helping the construction of the memorial stone. He could now remember every single person that had died in the war. Unhealthy? Yes, probably.

"Is he always like this when he's drunk?" Michelle asked him in a friendly slur, "He's absolutely hilarious!"

"Er, I don't know," he replied awkwardly, unsure how to handle a drunk, muggle girl, "I've never seen him drunk before."

"Oh? But I thought you two were friends."

"No, we're definitely not friends," said Harry firmly.

Michelle looked surprised and then appeared saddened by this. She murmured softly, "But you're the only person he's talked about…"

Harry suddenly felt very uncomfortable, the guilt starting to itch at him again. He excused himself from the two muggles, telling them that he would rescue Malfoy from the dangers of the women's toilets, and made his way away from them. It was in no way his fault, he told himself, that Malfoy had no friends or that Malfoy was in this predicament. Well, it was a little. He was the one who nominated Malfoy after all, but that was because there was no chance, not even for the Chosen One, to get Malfoy acquitted like his mother, and in any case, it was much better than Azkaban! And Harry couldn't be blamed for the path the Malfoy chose that had lead to incarceration! But then, he supposed, neither could Malfoy…

_My son, _said Narcissa Malfoy's melancholic, dignified voice through his memories, _may have not been the nicest boy in the world but he would do anything to protect the ones he loved._

Harry looked at Malfoy's inebriated body, lying quite comfortably on the plastic , sticky floor and felt a slight kinship with the boy. Malfoy slowly roused his eyes open and met Harry's gaze with glazed, mournful grey eyes.

"I'm tired, Potter," he whispered softly, "I'm so tired."

"I know," said Harry, gentler than he would have ever imagined himself to be with the other, "let's go home."

* * *

Going home was easier said than done. Part of Malfoy's exile was that he would not be able to perform magical acts, and this included apparation. Feeling undone by the very policy he and Hermione had created, Harry had no other choice but to usher Malfoy into a night bus and take the long, muggle trek back. Malfoy was fortunately not the type to throw up all over the place like Neville and thankfully fell straight asleep as soon as he sat down. Leaning his head against the window, his body visibly relaxed and his breathing evened.

Harry, exhausted, cast a quick refreshing charm on himself or else they would miss their stop. Now alert, he realised he had nothing else to do and so turned to study Malfoy as a means to combat boredom. He definitely was not as thin as he was before, back in his trial, though he still was as pale as ever now that the blush had faded. Harry preferred him with a bit of colour, he looked so much more human, but perhaps that was more to do with that happy expression that Harry had never seen before. Who else, Harry wondered, had he shown that too? A face lacking the sneer or the fear or that all too familiar smirk. An untainted smile. Not to Crabbe and Goyle probably, maybe Pansy. Almost certainly to his parents.

For a fleeting moment, Harry understood why Malfoy was loved.

But it passed quickly, with embarrassment.

Being so close to Malfoy, Harry realised he didn't look so much like father as he had previously thought. Or perhaps it was because Harry had spent a considerably amount of time with Narcissa that he saw her features expressed in her son. The curve of his lips and the shape of his eyes were more her than Lucius, and the shape of his face seemed like a mixture of the two. His eyebrows…they were like Sirius'! Arched and arrogant, a Black characteristic.

"What are you looking at?" mumbled a half awake Malfoy, peeking at Harry through thin slits.

Harry coughed embarrassedly, "Nothing. Go back to sleep!"

"How can I when I'm being perved on?" said Malfoy yawning widely like a cat. He rolled his head to Harry's shoulder. "There. You can't see now."

"Right. I'm guessing you haven't sobered up then," grumbled Harry but he made no move to push him away. Too much trouble than it was worth, he reasoned, when dealing with drunk people. So he let them sit there like that, ignoring how odd a situation they had come to.

"Hey, Potter," said Malfoy after a few minutes, "I was never going to be happy was I?"

"What do you mean?"

"Whatever outcome in the war, there was no chance of me being happy," Malfoy started to rant in a suddenly more coherent manner, "I mean, I'm sure you realised what a shit situation my family were in that time you were captured. We were the Dark Lord's _dogs, _and the other Death Eaters treated us as such. If he had won, things would have only got worse. They would have made me kill eventually, or kill me, us. Torture us because I would fuck something up. It would have been hell. But this, this is no paradise either. I'm never going to see my family again and I'm in exile indefinitely. Sooner or later, you're going to find something to send me back to Azkaban and if not, you'll end up forgetting me and I'll be left to rot here forever. If some miracle was to happen, and I'm let back in, everyone hates me anyway, no one would associate themselves to me. I'll drink myself to the grave probably. The last Malfoy, a complete fuck-up in every angle possible."

He let out a shaky breath.

"It probably wasn't even the war. I was fated to not be happy, since birth. I could never do nothing,_ anything_ right."

His shoulders started to tremble and Harry panicked. Malfoy wasn't going to cry was he? Harry wasn't sure he could handle all these different sides of Malfoy in one day.

"You're not a fuck-up, Malfoy," said Harry in strained kindness, "everyone makes mistakes and not being able to kill isn't a bad thing. It shows that there's good in you. And you're making loads of progress in this project."

"I am?" asked Malfoy, looking up at Harry.

"Yeah, definitely! David said you're brilliant at work and that you've really adjusted. It was really good of to go out and socialise as well. You're doing really well."

Malfoy glowed with delight. "Well, yeah, of course I am! I've studied really hard you know, and I read that manuel a _ri_-diculous amounts of times _and _I used the _phoon_ all by myself! I bet no other pure-blood would be as efficient as me in making cappuccinos! _Without magic!"_

Looking at Malfoy's happy face as he incoherently stumbled out boastful words, Harry was reminded of that time he was stuck in Borges and Burkes and saw the Malfoys. Malfoy had that same look of showing off, of being desperately eager to please and impress, as he did then with his father. It made Harry realise something about Malfoy. All along he was a just little boy who wanted praise and attention from everyone but especially from a father who was stingy in giving them. And that maybe it was the pent up frustration from this lack that made him such a prat. Perhaps this uneasy feeling and immaturity Harry recently gained around him was due to the fact that Malfoy had not grown up, that he was stuck in that mindset, while Harry and everyone else had moved on and matured.

The bus stopped just 5 minutes from Malfoy's flat. They got off, Harry silently, Malfoy still babbling, and made their way as quick a pace Harry could force Malfoy to walk. The wind had gotten colder as night rolled towards dawn and stung Harry's skin like thousands of sharp needles, piercing their way through his thin clothes. Harry mourned the loss of the summer warmth, something he associated with the euphoric celebrations that had occurred months ago. Now, in the middle of October, temperatures plummeted and heavy grey clouds took control of the skies.

Malfoy's voice abruptly fell silent. Harry turned to find the other looking at him with serious and coherent eyes.

"What?" Harry asked, impatiently, jumping from one foot to the other to ward the cold away.

Softly, sternly, clearly Malfoy asked what Harry had been dreading the whole night.

"Why did you choose to become my supervisor?"

Harry pushed his fists farther into his hood pockets and started to walk away. He had a feeling this question was going to come up eventually seeing as Malfoy wasn't stupid, but he did not want to reveal the reason, for he knew that Malfoy, once he knew, would wish that he didn't.

"Potter…"

"Look, it's bloody freezing out here! Can we just talk about it once we're inside?"

It was just a delaying tactic but Harry hoped that it would be long enough for the drunken Malfoy to forget he asked. Merlin, Malfoy would probably forget the whole night the next morning! However, Harry could not risk telling him. If Malfoy found out it would be too…awkward. For both of them.

"Trust you to suddenly sober up just as we get back," Harry muttered under his breath as they climbed the long flight of stairs to Malfoy's flat.

Without bothering to let Malfoy get his keys, he opened the door with a wordless 'alohamora'. Inside, the two were engulfed by a stale warmth which both welcomed. Harry collapsed onto the lumpy armchair, exhausted, and Malfoy looked at him in distaste, no trace of his happy inebriated self left.

"So, Potter?" he asked pointedly, his metallic gaze like a spotlight on Harry, "Care to explain?"

Harry shrugged. He was too tired, physically and mentally, to come up with a convincing explanation or to confess the whole truth and deal with the aftermath. After a moment of mental debating, he decided to compromise with a half-truth.

"I'm the only person who could do it."

"Bullshit," was Malfoy's quick-fire reply.

"No, I'm serious. I don't know if you know how much controversy there was around your exile but you must know how many people want you locked up?" retorted Harry, "Or even dead!"

Malfoy visibly flinched.

"Because of…Dumbledore?" he asked awkwardly, avoiding Harry's eyes.

Harry nodded tersely and carried on.

"So yeah, for your protection, we could only assign people we fully trust to go along with this project and we're pretty short on people we fully trust. Those we do are all extremely busy and no one is really lining up to take this job on, as you can imagine."

"But still, why you? You must be the busiest out of the lot!"

"Well," said Harry, scratching the back of his head, "I've been made take a bit of a back seat to be honest. They say it's so I could have a bit of a break or some shit like that but really they want to limit how much power I have over things. As hard for it is to imagine, there's some in the ministry who still don't like me very much."

"You _are_ shitting me, Potter?"

"Nope, they think I might turn into the next Voldemort or something."

"Merlin," said Malfoy, genuinely sounding shocked, "I thought it would have been a few _years _till they started to think like that. Even _I _think it's a bit ungrateful."

Harry shrugged. "Comes with the territory really. And the WUN's influence isn't making it any better, they _really _don't like me."

"So, that's the only reason?" asked Malfoy unsurely, "What about Frank?"

Harry's heart dropped. He had been hoping the issue of Frank wasn't going to be raised but it was inevitable he supposed. He liked Frank, he really did, so he would have preferred not to have disclosed such personal things about him to Malfoy but Malfoy did have the right to know. To know his life was in danger.

Maybe that'll make him behave.

"Frank," Harry explained tensely, "resigned. He lost his wife in the War and he didn't feel like he could supervise you in a responsible manner without getting his feelings involved."

"Oh," replied Malfoy, surprised and then asked quietly after a heavy pause, "Who was she?"

"Professor Burbage, the Muggle Studies professor."

In a sudden violent movement, Malfoy whipped his head to face Harry with a horrified expression. His grey eyes shone so bright in shock and fear that they almost looked silver, especially as all the colour drained out of his already pale face. Then, without warning, Malfoy seemed to crumple from within. It was as if some sort of dark, painful nightmare was slowly polluting his body and was trapping him in its world. A flashback. Harry recognised the symptoms; trembling, clammy skin, heavy ragged breathing, and a glazed over agonised expression.

Harry shouldn't have said it, he _knew _that. He _knew_ Malfoy was there when she was killed, everyone did from the trial for her murder. He _knew _ Malfoy found it traumatising, he had witnessed it in a memory. And above all, he _knew _ having Frank supervise was a bad idea but Frank himself offered and told Harry that he wanted his wife's dream to educate wizards about muggles to carry on, so what _else_ could Harry do but give him a chance? Harry was only eighteen, he made mistakes like any other teenager but the consequences of his were much less forgiving.

He reached his hand out towards Malfoy in an awkward attempt to comfort the other boy.

"Malfoy…"

"Don't," Malfoy cut him off before he even had the chance to speak, "just…go, Potter, please just go. I don't want you here."

"But I can't just leave you here!" exclaimed Harry, his inherent good nature unwilling to forsake him in such a state. He felt it was his fault after all, his brusqueness, his pettiness this past week was, as Hermione said, childish and unfair on Malfoy, who really had been trying despite the initial rattiness. Malfoy had suffered too in so many different ways, ways in which Harry could relate to, and ways which Harry could not even begin to understand. Malfoy was pitiful to a staggering degree whose every insult, every jibe, was a desperate cry for help.

To his surprise, Harry realised that _he_ desperately _wanted_ to help.

Malfoy had sank to the floor and held his head in shuddering arms. He did not move when Harry crouched down next next to him and grabbed hold of his shoulders, but the rhythm of his breathing slowed.

"Come on, Malfoy, snap out of it!" said Harry strongly, shaking him a little.

Reluctantly, Malfoy sluggishly raised his head and his expression triggered a memory in Harry, a memory he should never have had… _Malfoy on his knees with a face so tear-stained it was as if someone had carved a spider web of tear tracks down it… his eyes were like dull metal with the emotion hollowed out... and his lips, oh why could Harry not look away from those lips? Puffy and purple like bruised fruit, glistening with fresh blood and saliva and…and…_

_"Please," croaked the Malfoy in the memory or was it the Malfoy in the present?_

"Please what?" whispered Harry, finding himself unable to tell the difference.

"Please _fuck off,"_ demanded a very much present Malfoy whose voice cracked with effort. Though still very pale and shaking like a leaf, Malfoy seemed to have come back to his normal state of mind. Fortunately, he had not noticed Harry's own trip to the past, dazed and emotionally exhausted as he was.

Harry silently berated himself for letting down his guard and allowing unwelcome nightmares to sneak up on him again. It wasn't healthy and, more pressingly, the flashback had left him feeling intensely awkward towards Malfoy. It was understandable really, given the memory he had just seen, but the strange uncomfortable feeling, his thudding heartbeat, the dryness of his throat …he, he could not put his finger on it but he knew he had to get away as fast as he could.

Hastily letting go of Malfoy, Harry shot up to his feet and hurriedly moved away from Malfoy in order to apparate the hell out.

"Potter," murmured Malfoy suddenly, making Harry stop in his tracks. His head was hung low, between his bent legs and his blonde hair covered his face like a curtain.

"What?" asked Harry, struggling to hide his discomfort with a mask of impatience.

"You know I hated it, right?"

Malfoy's words startled him but gave Harry a rush of compassion that overrode his panic.

"Yeah," he said gently, truthfully, "I know."

"You, you know I never wanted to do it," pressed Malfoy, his voice juddering as it increased in volume, "I never wanted to watch people die!"

Harry remembered Malfoy's panicked expression when he did not, would not identify Harry that night at Malfoy Manor.

"I know."

* * *

As he left, as the rolling landscapes of London swooped past him, Harry decided he would come back the day after next. He would bring some DVDs that Dean had recommended, some microwave popcorn, and a massive tub of ice cream. He would bring a comfy old bean bag that had patterns of chickens that he mysteriously found in Sirius' room and make Malfoy sit in it together with a rainbow coloured blanket Harry had been given years ago by one of his 'fans'. He would force Malfoy to stop being jittery around muggle appliances and he would sit with him in the living room and show him how to enjoy one of the greatest perks of muggle culture.

Television.


End file.
